P. Chisholm - A Famine of Horses

“I see no longbows.”

“That’s because there are none,” put in Carey. “There’s some rotten firewood at the back, but the rest have been sold, no doubt.”

Lowther looked about him. Most of the men in the crowd were grinning; Dodd himself was hard put to it to stay stony-faced and the women at the back were whispering and giggling.

“Where’s Mr Atkinson?” he asked at last.

“I’ve no idea,” said Carey, “I was hoping you could enlighten us.”

Lowther said nothing and Carey turned away to speak to the locksmith.

“Finished?”

“Ay sir,” said the Locksmith with pride, “I did it just like yer honour said.”

Ceremoniously Carey paid him, shut the door to the armoury and locked it, put the key on his belt and gave the other to Scrope.

“Where’s mine?” demanded Lowther.

The Carey eyebrows would have driven Dodd wild if he’d been Lowther, they were so expressive.

“The Deputy Warden keeps the key to the armoury,” he said blandly, “along with the Warden. Though it hardly seems necessary to lock the place, seeing as there’s nothing left to steal.”

Lowther turned on his heel and marched away. Most of the crowd heard the rumbling in their bellies and followed. Bangtail Graham and Red Sandy were talking together and Dodd joined them as Carey came towards him.

“How far is it to where you found the body?” Carey asked.

Dodd thought for a moment. “About six miles to the Esk and then another two, maybe.”

“That’s Solway field, isn’t it, where the battle was?”

“You come on old skulls and helmets now and then,” Dodd allowed. “It’s aye rough ground.”

“We’ll go tomorrow then, when we’re more respectable, after the inquest.”

“Ay sir.”

“And now, while we’re at the whited sepulchres, shall we have a look at the stables and the barracks?”

God, did the man never stop? Dodd’s belly was growling heroically.

“Ay sir,” he said sullenly.

Carey smiled. “After dinner.”

At least the stables were clean, which was a mercy because Carey poked about in a way that Lowther never had, digging deep into feed bins, lifting hooves for signs of footrot, tutting at the miserable stocks of hay and oats which was all they had left and agreeing that the harness was old but in reasonably good condition.

The barracks Carey pronounced as no worse than many he had seen and better than some. Even so, he had two of Scrope’s women servants come in with brooms to sweep the ancient rushes from Dodd’s section out into the courtyard so the jacks could be sponged and dried and oiled.

When Dodd asked him why on earth he cared about the huswifery of the barracks he told a long story about the Netherlands, how the Dutch seldom got the plague and that he was convinced it was because they kept foul airs out of their houses by cleaning them. Dodd had never heard such a ridiculous story, since everyone knew that plague was the sword of God’s wrath, but he decided he could humour a man who would face down Richard Lowther so entertainingly.

The wind helped them to dry off the cleaned jacks and weaponry, and they worked on through the long evening and by torchlight after sunset, while Carey wandered by occasionally, making helpful suggestions and supplying harness oil. He also went down to Carlisle town and bought six longbows and quivers of arrows with his own money, which he announced he would see tried the next day.

At last, dog-tired, with sore hands, worrying over the Graham corpse which had not yet turned up, and beginning to hate Carey, Dodd went to his bed in the tiny chamber that was one of his perks as Sergeant. He would have to be up out of it again in about five hours, he knew.

When he pulled back the curtain, he stopped. A less dour man would have howled at the waxy face with the star-shaped peck in the right cheek that glared up at him from his pillow, but Dodd had no more indignation left in him. He was simply glad to have found the damned thing, rolled it off onto the floor and was asleep three minutes later. At least the bastard Courtier had wrapped it in its cloak again.

Barnabus Cooke had seen his master in action in a new command before and so knew what to expect. By dint of making up to Goodwife Biltock, the only other southerner in the place, he had found an ancient desk in one of the storerooms, and acquired it. After cleaning and polishing and eviction of mice it went into Carey’s second chamber in the Queen Mary Tower, followed by a high stool and a rickety little table. Richard Bell, Scrope’s nervous elderly clerk, was astonished when he was asked for paper, pens and ink and had none to spare. In the end they made an expedition to the one stationer in town, where they bought paper and ink and some uncut goose feathers on credit.

By evening the pens had been cured in sandbaths and cut by Bell the way Carey liked them, the floor of his bedroom had been swept again and was newly strewn with fresh rushes. They had decided to sell the mildewed bedcurtains and stained counterpane. Goodwife Biltock brought wormwood and rue to try and clear the place of fleas, but she said there was nothing really to be done about them, other than burning the place out and putting new woodwork in. She brought a large quilt and some of Scrope’s hangings to replace the old curtains and announced that Lady Scrope had begun work on a completely new set for her brother. Next on Barnabus’s mental list was a fresh palliasse for him and Simon and an uncracked jordan to go under the bed, but that could wait.

Barnabus had lit the rushlights and the fire and was just unpacking the second chest they had brought when Carey walked in and stopped. His face lit up.

“Barnabus, this is splendid. Thank God I can trust at least one of my men.”

Barnabus snorted and elaborately examined a shoulder seam that seemed on the point of parting. Carey got the message.

“How can I thank you?” he asked warily.

“You can pay me my back wages, sir.”

“God’s blood, Barnabus, you know what…”

“I know the third chest is heavy, sir,” said Barnabus. “And I know you had an argument with my Lord Hunsdon before you left London.”

“Aren’t you afraid your savings might be stolen in this nest of thieves?”

“If I had any, I might be, sir. But there’s a goldsmith in the town will give me a good rate on it and I know what you plan for tomorrow so if I might make so bold and strike while the iron’s hot, as it were, I’d rather have what I’m owed now than wait another year…”

Carey winced. “I still owe the tailors…”

“…far more money than you can pay, sir,” said Barnabus, putting down the cramoisie doublet and picking up the new black velvet one. “However they’re in London and…”

“…and you’re here and can make my life miserable.”

“Yes sir,” said Barnabus blandly. “That’s about the size of it.”

Carey made a face, took his sword off, leaned it against the wall and went to the third chest. He opened it, scattered shirts and hose until it was empty, and then released the false bottom. Barnabus stared at the money with the blood draining from his face.

“Jesus Christ,” he said.

“How much do I owe you?”

“Thirty-eight pounds, ten shillings and fourpence, including the money I lent you last month,” Barnabus answered mechanically, still hypnotised by the gold and silver in front of him.

Carey counted the cash out, and handed it over.

“Wh…where did you get it all from, sir?”

“I robbed a goldsmith on Cheapside.”

Although he was fully capable of it, if necessary, Barnabus didn’t find this funny. “Lord Hunsdon…”